Drowning Instinct(10)
Author: Ilsa J. Bick

―Here.‖ He dealt me a late pass. ―You might need this. You okay?‖

No. But I gave an all-purpose shrug, hoping he‘d read it as yes and let me slink away.

―It‘ll get better. Just give it time.‖

―I should get to class.‖ Then I remembered: ―Actually, the library. I‘ve got study hall.‖

―Then walk with me for a second.‖

I remembered what Danielle had said about Mr. Anderson liking the broken ones.

Well, if that was true, what was her problem? Whatever. ―I‘m okay.‖

―All right,‖ he said, easily. ―No pressure.‖

All of a sudden, I felt bad. He was just being nice. ―I‘m sorry.‖

―What for? You have nothing to apologize about, Ms. Lord. You‘re allowed your feelings.‖ He hesitated then said, ―Look, I run or bike every other morning. You get here so early, if you ever want to come along, you‘re welcome to. Runs are always nicer when you‘ve got a partner. And no pressure to join the team, I promise.‖

―Thanks.‖ I knew I wouldn‘t take him up on his offer, but the fact that he had bothered made me feel better. ―I‘ll think about it.‖

―Liar,‖ but he smiled as he said it. ―Well, the offer always stands. Come on, we‘ll go to my room. It‘s my planning period, and I‘ve got a blow-dryer you can use for that shirt. Back room will give you plenty of privacy.‖

―What about study hall? Shouldn‘t I go to the library?‖

―What for, Ms. Lord?‖ Mr. Anderson said. ―You‘re with me.‖

9: a

And the rest of that day . . .

Oh, who cares? You know, Bob, school is school, one of those life experiences we kids all have to get through in order to become you. Then we wonder what all the fuss was about, especially while we‘re cleaning up your little messes: toxic waste, war, bank bailouts. Honestly, if we ran up debt the way you guys do? You‘d ground us, take away our cells, and make us clean toilets with a toothbrush until we‘d paid back every penny.

Anyway, things haven‘t changed that much from when you went, I bet. The only people who love school are either the über-popular kids with about a bazillion Facebook friends and no credit limit, or the truly geeky. Or the sports people, I guess. The rest of us fly below the radar, or try to, anyway.

So here‘s the only other important thing. Well, two things, actually. Okay, three.

b

One:

In chemistry, Mr. Anderson did not make me stand up and give my spiel. Oh, he took attendance. When he got to my name, though, he never looked up, didn‘t pause, just kept right on rolling so my name was lost in the general blur. Maybe he figured I‘d had enough. Pretty much everyone knew my story by then, anyway. So I would‘ve been one of the anonymous masses except . . .

c

Two:

Danielle threw a whisper to a classmate right after he called my name. Nothing audible, but when they both snickered, Mr. Anderson paused, drilled Danielle with a look and asked if she had anything she‘d like to share.

Danielle looked stunned, like she couldn‘t believe he‘d call her out like that.

― Excuse me?‖

―I said, would you like to share, or take your conversation into the hall?‖ Folding his arms, Mr. Anderson leaned back against the board. ―We‘ll be happy to wait until you‘re done.‖

The class was deathly quiet. Everyone was looking at Danielle, even me. Well, I couldn‘t help it; I‘d chosen the very last row. So I saw the color ooze up her neck.

―No,‖ said Danielle, finally. Her voice was very small. ―I‘m sorry. It won‘t happen again.‖

―Excellent,‖ said Mr. Anderson. ―Now, where was I? Ah, here we go . . . Jim Morris?‖

d

And three:

Mr. Anderson lectured for about thirty minutes on safety, the curriculum, blah, blah, blah. But then he did an experiment.

―Let‘s look at what happens to liquid hexane in air and on glass,‖ he said, after turning off the lights. We were goggled up and clustered around his demo bench. He squirted a few drops onto a huge glass spatter plate as big as an elephant‘s contact lens.

Next he held a flint over the plate and scraped out a shower of sparks.

The hexane caught with a faint hah. The flame burned slowly, but it was also clean and very bright, almost white. Everyone oooohed and from where I stood, Bob, the way he palmed the glass? Mr. Anderson had scooped up a handful of flame with his bare hands.

―Now, watch what happens when the hexane‘s in a plastic bottle. You might want to stand back a little for this one.‖ He coated the inside of the bottle then carefully slid a long rod into the mouth and set off a spark.

BUMPH! The hexane erupted in a bright, violent fountain of flame that spewed from the bottle like a blowtorch. Everyone gasped; a couple people clapped. Someone said,

― Whoa.‖

―Yeah, very whoa. So here‘s what you‘ve got to remember, people. The conditions under which an experiment is performed are key. Change a single parameter and you might alter the outcome. On the watch glass, the vapors dissipated. It‘s still hexane and it‘s no less volatile, but you get a nice, controlled burn. Yet ignite that same hexane in an environment from which the vapors can‘t escape, and now you‘ll get an explosion, no less beautiful,‖

Mr. Anderson said, ―but deadly.‖

10: a

The thing about starting school a week before Labor Day is you go to school for four days and then you have a long weekend. There‘s no time to get into any kind of groove, and the next week‘s going to be short, too. So you‘re all, I don‘t know . . .

discombobulated. At least I was. If I were normal and had, oh, a social life, I‘d be as thrilled as every other girl not to be in school that next Monday. Instead, I got dragged along on our monthly guilt-pilgrimage to see my grandpa.

Well, it‘s not like I was ever like any other girl anyway.

b

―Stephie, honey.‖ Even before the fire, Grandpa MacAllister— husband of my nutty, sex-crazed grandmother—was a gargoyle, with his beaky nose and bright, button-black eyes. The whole left side of his face was drippy now, like molten candle wax, because of a stroke he‘d had in the ICU. The good news was, most of the time, he didn‘t know who I was. He‘d mistake me for Grandma Stephie or Aunt Betsy, my mom‘s sister who‘d wisely moved to England and never came home, or someone named Helen, a woman no one knew. (Given the leer on Grandpa‘s face I was happy not knowing.) That Grandpa sometimes thought I was his wife—Mom‘s mom—drove Mom up a tree. ―Stephie, you bring me a carton of those Camels I asked for?‖